


Regarding Little White Lies

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Klance history, Drunk Sex, Galaxy Garrison, Hand Jobs, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: “Who are you?”“Nope, don’t remember, didn’t happen.”Keith and Lance keep telling dumb little lies to each other.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681
Comments: 6
Kudos: 176





	Regarding Little White Lies

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

When Lance insists he doesn’t remember their bonding moment, it’s not out of cruelty or macho self-defense. It’s revenge, and Keith knows very well he deserves it.

The truth is, when Lance had clamoured through the door at the Garrison and scooped up Shiro’s other arm and insisted, “I’m saving Shiro!” Keith hadn’t even taken the time to freeze. Fight or flight had kicked in before he’d even taken out the techs, and he’d still been in its adrenaline-strong grip.

So he’d fought.

“Who are you?”

And as Lance had first deadpanned his name and then tried to jog Keith’s memory, the dropout had been _totally panicking_ internally.

He’d remembered Lance.

_Of course_ he’d remembered Lance.

But he’d had his missing-declared-dead brother’s dead weight on his shoulder, and encroaching Garrison soldiers to evade, and apparently three more people to keep alive while he did it.

So, still panicking, he’d _fought_ , and his fighting had been cold and quick and brutal:

“Oh wait, I remember you. You’re a cargo pilot.”

The shift in Lance had been subtle, but Keith had seen the squaring of his shoulders, the turning down of lips that had been quirked in jest. The tease had gone out of him.

In retrospect, maybe something like hope had gone out of him, too.

Keith had regretted it almost immediately. ‘ _I’m sorry, I lied, I remember_ ’ had been a fucking ice cube in his throat, but he’d managed to swallow it.

Of course he’d remembered.

He’d remembered the muddy quality of the speakers at his first (and, it had turned out, his last) Garrison party. He’d remembered the shitty tequila he hadn’t quibbled over, and the way the retro plaster on the wall had dug into his back from his leaning against it for so long.

He’d remembered the cargo pilot with the pretty blue eyes.

He’d remembered the way they’d teased back and forth, Lance insisting that Keith had stolen his fighter class spot, Keith asking what he’d planned to do about it.

He'd remembered the feel of his lips, the tipsy giggling as they’d gone on the hunt for an empty room and interrupted two separate couples in various states of undress, the way Lance had bitten a dark bruise into his neck and said, “There, that’s what you get, Mullet.”

He’d remembered, too, the shitty tequila hangover, and the way it hadn’t stopped his habitual body from waking up with the sun. He’d remembered the panic at seeing such a beautiful, lax face so close to his own, and the mortification at the memories of how he’d laughed out loud with this man, and moaned unreservedly, and let his face crumple in orgasm.

He’d remembered the way fight or flight had kicked in, and he’d flown.

He’d gotten himself expelled within the week, and had managed to avoid the terrifyingly attractive cargo pilot the whole time.

So even though it fucking stings when Lance shuts him down with such a concise, “Nope, don’t remember, didn’t happen,” Keith has to concede that it’s appropriate retribution.

Having said that, when Lance slips up post-Nyma and drops, “Oh, come on, I thought we bonded!” Keith makes a very specific note of it.

“I thought you didn’t remember our bonding moment,” he goads when he finally gives in and flies down to unchain Lance and return his lion.

He expects a quick retort, or maybe a sore, emphatic correction. He doesn’t expect the sidelong look as Lance rubs at his wrists and retrieves his helmet. He doesn’t expect the long, pointed silence. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Well.”

‘ _I’m sorry, I lied, I remember_ ,’ is still a fucking ice cube, and this time he doesn’t try to swallow it; just lets it melt until it’s a shape he can fit in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know why...uh, I mean, I know you remember…”

He can feel his ears heating, the beginnings of fight of flight nipping at his fingertips.

So he stays put.

(What he wouldn’t give for some shitty tequila.)

“I remember you,” he says.

Lance laughs a little, but it's shaky; not quite back in place. “I hope so, I’ve only been gone, what, an hour?”

“No, I mean, I remember you. _Remembered_ you. At the Garrison.”

Lance is expressive, but Keith is terrible at reading people. The blue paladin’s face does a bunch of things all in a row, but he has no idea what they mean. “You remembered,” Lance says.

Then, smaller: “You remembered?”

Then, much larger, with a shove against Keith’s chest: “You remembered?!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Why would you lie about that?!”

“I don’t know! I panicked!”

“What is there to panic about?! We hooked up at a party, big deal!”

Keith winces. “Don’t...don’t _say it_ like that.This is exactly why I didn’t tell you in the first place.”

Lance’s face finally settles long enough for Keith to place the hurt on it. “Look, Mullet, it’s fine if you regret it or whatever, but you don’t have to act so ashamed to have gotten down with me.”

Keith gives in to the instinct, just a little, and fights: “Are you kidding me? I’m not _ashamed_ of you, that’s dumb!”

Lance sputters. “Dumb? Well what am I supposed to think?!”

“I’m not ashamed, I’m fucking _scared_.”

It’s weird to see Lance’s face go so neutral so fast. “...scared?”

“I…” Keith scrubs a hand through his hair and readjusts the helmet under his arm. “Yeah. I was scared. It felt...nice. You felt nice.”

“And nice was...scary for you?”

Keith balks. “Are you _joking_?. You were so...you _are_ so...and I’m _not_ …”

Lance blinks rapidly; shakes his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to bring it up. Just forget I said anything.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Nope, nope, nope, that’s not going to happen. This changes everything.”

Keith knows. It’s what he’s been afraid of. “Lance, stop.”

“Lance, _go_.”

“This isn’t funny!”

But Lance is already laughing. “Like hell it isn’t, this is _hilarious_!”

Keith actually takes a half-step backward. It’s surprising how much it hurts. It’s a harsh sort of rejection, even given their barbarous baseline. “Fuck you,” he says, and there’s not even any heat in it, just a cracked ache.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Lance responds pointedly. “Would you, please?”

“Go to–” Keith pauses; closes his eyes against the mirth on Lance’s face. “Wait, no, what? Come again?”

“I would _love_ to.”

“Lance, for real, stop. I’m serious.”

“Lance, for real, _go_ ,” the blue paladin laughs. “I’m _not_ serious. I spent _months_ being serious about it and it’s all messed up, anyway, so I’m done with that noise. This is _funny_ , and if you disagree, I’m not sorry to tell you that you’re wrong.”

“What the hell is so funny about any of this?”

Instead of answering, Lance wraps a hand around the back of his neck and hauls him in for a kiss.

It’s completely tactless. Keith isn’t expecting it, so he naturally tries to jerk away, but Lance holds fast. He loses his sound of protest, a silly _mmumph?_ , to the space between Lance’s lips.

And this he doesn't remember.

He doesn’t remember Lance moving this way, firm and rhythmic, like he’s determined to impress _something_ onto Keith that neither of them understand.

He doesn’t remember him smelling like fading body lotion and grass stains.

He doesn’t remember his lungs filling themselves up with tonic like this, bubbling in his chest and tickling up his throat.

Afterward, forehead tilted forward so it’s resting against Keith’s temple, Lance whispers, “Now tell me that’s not funny.”

Keith’s lips are moist, and he doesn’t know if it’s from him or Lance, and he can’t really get over it, so all he offers is an ineloquent, “Huh?”

“We could’ve been doing that for _months_. It’s ridiculous.” Even so, his ensuing chuckle is soft; dubious.

“We could have…?”

“If you hadn’t been such an emo douchebag about it."

Keith is still mostly at a loss. He’s strangely aware of all the bits Lance is touching (pressure and warmth and itching and sweat): at the back of his neck under Lance’s hand; on his shoulder under the other one; on his temple and skating down his cheek under Lance’s breath. “What?”

“ _I’m Keith and no one will ever loooove meeee, so I’m going to pretend feelings don’t exist,_ ” Lance taunts, “ _Look at how emo and broody I am_. Like seriously, was it worth it? Because I’d have hopped on that dick, like, day two if I’m being honest. What a waste of orgasms and time.”

Finally, Keith gathers his wits (somewhat). He shoves Lance in the chest, and doesn’t even feel a little bad when it sends him sprawling on his back in the dirt. “You’re so _obnoxiously_ …” he splutters, “You’re such a...I can’t _stand_ …”

Lance props himself up on his elbows. “Dude, _ditto_.”

As most things have gone between them, it all slots together in a violent, complex rush they don’t bother to pick apart. Keith lets out a frustrated, “Argh, you _ass_ ,” and brings his helmet up to spit into the comms, “I’ve got Lance, he’s fine, just give us a few minutes,” and throws himself onto Lance with no regard whatsoever, so the bulk of his weight lands right on the blue paladin’s stomach and he emits a heavy, “ _Oof_!”

And parts of this he _definitely_ remembers.

He remembers the way Lance kisses hard and frenetic, constantly moving, taking every one of Keith’s actions as a challenge.

He remembers the way Lance undresses him with no sophistication, pulling at pieces of his clothing (armour, this time) and mumbling, “Off, off, off…” and then laying his hands wide and flat over the exposed skin.

He remembers the way his cock feels in his hand, and the way he doesn’t even have to move his arm; just has to let Lance fuck up into the tight ring of his fist and take whatever he needs.

“To-Together,” Lance gasps, and Keith can’t clamp down quickly enough on his moan when they shift and he’s able to wrap his hand around both of them at once. He’s already so hard that he’s leaking. It’s a little embarrassing (he hasn’t even been touched until now), but when he leaves a lewd smear right below Lance’s belly button, the other man looks down at it and swipes a finger through it and seems almost transfixed, even as he groans and bucks his hips.

His hands grip in Keith’s hair, and then slide down to rub over his nipples, and then wrap around to encourage Keith’s hips to thrust in tandem with the cadence of his hand. He sighs and moans and whispers, “Keith, fuck, yes…” and he’s so fucking generous with himself that it makes the red paladin dizzy.

“Come,” Keith says, and his voice is surprisingly assertive in its hush, “Let me see you come again.”

It’s the _again_ that seems to do it. Lance chokes as he tries to repeat it: “Yeah? You wanna see me come all over you ag–ah, _fuck_.”

His cock jerks against Keith’s, pulses in his hand, and it’s enough. He kisses Lance while they come, uncoordinated and probably too intimate, and lets himself collapse into their combined mess afterward.

“Ugh, _bony_ ,” Lance complains.

Keith shrugs as best he can while horizontal. “Deal with it. You’re comfy.” All the same, he repositions himself so their softest bits are a little more well-aligned. “Eugh. Sticky, though.”

“ _I am also dealing with the stickiness_.”

“Sucks to be you.”

They snipe back and forth at each other while they catch their breath, and while they get dressed, and while they climb into Red for the journey back to the team. They snipe all afternoon and well into their time back at the castle. They snipe right up until they fall into bed that night, clinging to each other in a desperate bid for more.

And neither of them pretend they don’t remember.


End file.
